


It's All In the Eyes

by Aithilin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Artists, Artist AU, F/M, Fic Exchange, Fluff, M/M, exchangelock 2014
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-12
Updated: 2014-07-12
Packaged: 2018-02-08 12:57:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1942017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aithilin/pseuds/Aithilin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg Lestrade is an artist. He specialises in portraits and figures, and only has one little problem; he can't get the eyes right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's All In the Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> This is a gift for the fabmarymorstan, who liked Sherstrade, Mary Morstan, and was open to most AUs (I would have done a Hogwarts one, but I've already got that going, and it seemed like cheating).

He never could get the eyes right. He had tried, spent hours and entire sketchbooks to experiment with shading and colouring, different media and different styles. But nothing worked. On paper or canvas, the eyes seemed dead— emotionless and an insult to his models. So it became a mark of his style to do away with the problem all together. His models never complained when he had them looking away, or their faces hidden behind veils and props. He softened the pieces, made them less… direct. The way the men and women on his roster of models appeared soft, thoughtful, _delicate_ , became a part of his style. He refocused on the other details, instead. The way lips curled, or shoulders rested. The way a hip shifted or hair fell. He learnt to observe, instead, and convey the emotion he wanted— needed— in ways that didn’t include working in the delicate turn and colours of eyes. 

His critics— his many, many critics— complained that he detached the models from the audience, that he depicted submission rather than strength, that he never even tried to capture the souls of the pieces he created. They marked it for laziness, a lack of talent, a lack of insight, misogyny, bigotry, and whatever else they could come up with— citing whatever piece was on display as their proof. 

Greg Lestrade just couldn’t get the eyes right. 

It wouldn’t have been such an issue if he didn’t love to focus on portraits and figures. 

He preferred portraits— loved the complexity and characteristics of a human figure so much more than a still life or landscape. He loved the colour and feel of humanity on canvas, and see the way everything around a subject just screamed for life. But most of all, he loved the interactions. Liked to have his model sit for them, chat with them as he brought out their personality in each piece. Without the direct gaze, there was always something missing, but there were plenty of portraits that he was proud of. Mostly of his favourite ladies (he had a few men on his list of regular models, as well, but none nearly as willing to return his calls and sit for hours, or listen to his schemes for new pieces. There was Phil, and Dimmock, but their involvement was usually based on who else was sitting).

Lestrade had long preferred Molly’s nervous chatter about her work as she sat for him, the way she edged into passion as she talked about science and medicine and the leaps pathology took every year. He liked the way Sally laughed easily with him, and teased him every time he tried to capture the tight rings of her hair in oils or pastels (watercolour seemed to work the best— made her hair seem like a halo around her, which had started off a whole new project re-imagining classic depictions of angels and saints). He loved Irene’s power plays as she commanded the room around her with absolute confidence— with her strong curves and playful lips and absolute confidence— and made him blush or sputter with her comments as their sessions dragged on. 

He wished he could capture their eyes. Let the rest of the world see them. Let the rest of the world actually _see_ what he saw in them. 

There were commissions, of course. They came in with every holiday or graduation. Mostly family things— a photograph taken to work from, or a few formal sittings scheduled— a commemoration or a bit of showing off, or pieces for local events. He hated them. There were lifeless eyes— everything too posed, too stiff. He put out exactly what he saw for those commissions, not willing to risk offending the patrons. It was a rare gift to be commissioned to pose a subject on his own, without the input of the family involved. 

The latest piece was for a charity auction. His name was low on the roster of pieces set out to be shown and sold, but it was a good cause: a staged dinner and auction fundraiser for a local LGBT group trying to get through another year. He called in one of the few male models on the roster for the piece. A retired soldier who had sought him out as some kind of therapy. 

As as model, he liked John. The man had an unassuming air and straightforward nature, a particular way that he disregarded expectations while still upholding the ideas of a very British polite demeanour that Lestrade enjoyed. He had interesting, changeable, emotive features— could be innocent and sweet for one piece— all wide-eyed and boyish smile, shoulders relaxed and his whole posture making him a good twenty years younger-- or a vengeful force of nature for the next— the returned, wounded soldier. There was a turn to his mouth, a way he held himself, the way one shoulder slumped (still anxious over the scar, though Lestrade longed to get the chance to put the detail of it as a focal point) and he favoured one side. He was quiet during his sittings, and it had taken weeks to work him out of the military stiffness and postures. Longer to get him to stop blushing every time he had to undress (Irene hadn’t helped, with her running commentary the last time he sat them together). But nearly a year on after the first (fully clothed) sitting, and John could walk into the studio like he owned the place and set about making the tea they shared before each new session. They could chat about the weather, local sport, the news, and various hobbies. Lestrade knew that John was bored with civilian life. Knew that he wanted something different— less clinical, less static. 

John was his first pick for this auction piece. 

The second had been a risk. 

But Lestrade had long held with the school of thought that good art took risks.


End file.
